Tonight I Wanna Cry
by Memories Left Abandoned
Summary: He's going to get engaged, and I'm going to get drunk. Sounds to me like he got the short straw. BenxRiley slash. Rating for language.


**A/N: I felt self-conscious because I was working on this in health class, where I'm surrounded by posters telling me not to drink. Or do drugs. Or have unprotected sex. And, of course, he starts off by saying he's going to get drunk. Oh, the irony.**

**Ah, this is much better than the "original edit." Yay.**

**Disclaimer: NT isn't mine, still. How sad and depressing for me.**

I'm not a drinker. I actually hate the taste of alcohol.

But everyone wants release. Everyone wants that feeling of relief that only comes through feeling completely empty. Some achieve it by drinking, others with drugs. I'm trying the first.

Fuck Valentine's Day. Fuck it to hell for making me think there was any chance at all. Of course there wasn't.

Backing up now. My best friend has a girlfriend. But I was actually stupid enough to believe I had a chance with him, fucked-up freak that I am. So I went to him yesterday and actually told him that I loved him. That was the 13th. Today is the 14th—Valentine's Day.

He's proposing tonight. Right about now, actually.

It's so stupid and overdone. Could he not think of anything more original? What, is he going to give it to her in one of those stupid little cupcakes, too? If he's going to go the cliché route, he might as well go all the fucking way.

So he's going to get engaged, and I'm going to get drunk. Sounds to me like he's getting the short straw.

Who would want to be married, anyway? Spending my entire life chained to another human being is not exactly my cup of tea. They say it's the last legal form and slavery, and it totally is.

Although I guess if you're in love with someone enough, it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe.

Shit. What am I even saying? He's in love with that stupid, stupid woman, and I am left out. A-fucking-gain.

This beer tastes disgusting. Why am I even drinking this shit? More masculine, my ass. Give me something fruity any day. At least it's not the color of piss.

I've completely crossed over to the gay side.

…Wasn't it him who bought this in the first place?

You know, it doesn't help that I'm drowning in a sea of pictures. When did I even put all these up? Before I knew. Of course.

Ah, now my head hurts. Stupid hangovers. Aren't they supposed to wait until _after_ you finish drinking? Like, the morning after? Nope. I'm such a fucking lightweight.

More memories, and they're just making my head hurt more. I don't even need the stupid pictures; me own stupid brain is going to conjure images. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Didn't he always tell me to be more confident in myself? More self-esteem? Something like that. Well, fuck it. No—a toast to that.

I've really got to find a better way to get rid of him. The room is spinning. I haven't had that many… okay. I guess nine is many.

Standing hurts. Sitting hurts. How the hell am I supposed to exist like this?

Standing—moving—ouch. Fuck.

Actually, laying here doesn't hurt as much as standing or sitting did. Hmm.

Except that now my vision is swimming.

…Are those tears?

Shit. Gay, gay, gay gay gay. Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid me.

More pain in my head. I should really have cut back.

I've got to move. I can't just lay here.

Why am I not moving? How drunk am I? Am I even awake?

Noise. Sounds like banging. Is someone breaking in?

Yes. Someone just broke in.

I need to move. My body still isn't working.

Okay, cool. Robbers can steal my shit. I don't need it. If they'd only take the pictures…

A face. That's not a robber…

Where the hell is he taking me?

A bed?

Light hurts my head. Light goes away. He says something, but I don't hear him.

A sigh. My eyes close, and he's gone.

NTNTNTNT

Although I feel coherent enough to form real thoughts, the light still kills. I groan.

"Riley? Are you awake?" he asks, too loudly.

"Don't yell. Why are you yelling?" I respond. The noise is killing my head.

"Sorry," he whispers. "Better?"

"Yeah," I answer. He hands me a cup of water and two pills. "Are you trying to drug me?" I try to kid.

"I think you did that well enough yourself. How long did it take you to drink that much?"

I think. "Um… four hours?"

His eyes widen, then narrow in anger. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"The volume," I say, rubbing my temples. I take the medicine and put the glass aside.

"Yeah, well," he huffs, quieter now. "If your blood alcohol content wasn't eight times the legal limit…"

"Eight?" I ask.

"Exaggeration."

"Oh." We're both quiet for a moment, then—

"So you didn't answer my question. Why were you so drunk?"

Does he really not know the answer to this question? And, of course, there's no way to get around the truth. I mumble something incoherently and I hope he'll get the point.

"Seriously, Riley," he says. "It's not safe."

"I know it's not fucking safe!" I yell, standing. Mistake. My head bursts into a thousand pieces. "Ow," I mutter, sitting back down. He's still waiting for my answer. "What did you expect, Ben? That I'd be perfectly fine to get rejected? Happy to watch you get engaged, and then married? Yeah, right. The day I go to that wedding is the day I punch that bitch in the face, because that's the only reason I'd be there."

He looks hurt and doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I didn't mean that."

"Apology accepted," he mutters, still not looking at me.

I'd like to bash my head against the wall right about now. Someday I'm going to learn to think before I speak.

This silence is killing me. Awkward and tense are two words I've never used to describe a conversation between us, but here we are. Awkward and tense.

"So…" I say, determined to fix this. "Did she love the ring?"

So I couldn't have picked a topic that would have crushed me more. Stupid, stupid me.

"We don't have to talk about it," he answers. "I understand."

Okay, more awkwardness. Are we ever going to be able to talk again?

I can feel anger rising in me again. "So we're just going to sit here in silence?"

"What do you propose we talk about?" he responds.

Maybe it's his word choice. Maybe it's something else. I don't know, but I prepare my head for the sound explosion. "I don't know! I don't fucking know!" I'm standing in front of him now, and he's watching me, and I'm staring directly into his eyes. "Do you even want to talk to me? I don't know! You're certainly not acting like it! And why is that? I don't know! What I knew is that, in a matter of seconds, you broke my heart and, when I'm here, wallowing in self-pity and trying to cope with the shit _you_ handed me, you had the nerve to waltz in and try to act like a fucking hero! Ben Gates gets credit for another find—his gay best friend, drunk on the floor! Well congrata-fucking-lations! What's the finder's fee this time? Do you want to crush my entire heart, or just part of it?"

Panting, I turn around and walk away. I already know the tears are coming. The tears and the headache and the heartache. Pain, pain, pain.

I end up back in the living room, surrounded by the evidence of my stupidity. Disgusted with myself, I grab a trash bag from the kitchen and begin to clean up. There's a picture frame I don't remember breaking, and I don't have to wonder why it's broken.

Under the shattered glass sits a picture of Ben and I after discovering the first treasure. I'm hugging that weird goatee-guy and he's laughing at me. We both look incredibly happy.

This is so incredibly fucked up. I'm crying again, just staring at the picture. I place it on the desk and sit down, head in my hands.

"I'm sorry," he says, scaring the shit out of me.

"What? I ask, not looking up. "What could you possibly want? Why are you even here?"

"I don't really know," he says.

I look up, a tiny but of my anger fading. "Why did you come last night, then?"

"I don't know," he repeats. "I just felt like I needed to be here."

"Well you didn't," I say, shaking my head. "You can't keep trying to save me, Ben. I'm too far gone."

"What do you mean?" he asks, sitting on the couch. "You sound like you're about to commit suicide."

"Only mentally," I answer.

"Riley—"

"Stop it, Ben. I had my chance—if you could call it that—and I blew it, and now you're with Abigail, so it looks like I'm going to have to deal with it."

"Would you stop talking like that?" he asks, annoyed. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You're going down the aisle, and that's enough for me," I snap.

He stays silent, but I can feel the angry tension in the room. Frustrated, I stand and cross the room, beginning to pace in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him. I stare down at my feet, which move progressively faster as my frustration increases.

Finally I stop and look at him. He's still waiting for me to do something. I decide to take matters into my own hands.

In three huge steps, I cross the room. Before he can stop me, I lean down and kiss him on the lips. I let myself get carried away in his taste, his touch…

Is he kissing me back?

"What the hell?" I ask, pulling back. "What the fuck is going on? You're not supposed to kiss me back!"

"I know," he answers.

"But you did," I say emphatically.

"I know," he repeats, wiping his mouth.

"And if I kissed you again…?" I leave the question hanging in the air.

"I'd do it again," he answers.

A million questions are running through my mind, but I can't ask any of them. I kiss him again, ignoring the mixed emotions I feel, and somehow, when I can block out the thoughts of the consequences, it's the most perfect thing I've ever felt. I kiss him until my lips are numb and swollen, at which point I finally breathe.

Of course, as soon as I stop, my brain starts again. Too many consequences…too many regrets…

"I shouldn't have done that," he says, suddenly shy.

"It was my fault," I mutter. "I'm just making the hole deeper for myself." He doesn't respond, and I still have questions. "Why did you kiss me back?"

"Because I wanted to." I stare at him.

"I don't understand," I say. "You're engaged, right?"

"Yes," he says, looking at his ring finger out of habit.

"Then why would you want to kiss someone else, someone who happens to be your gay best friend?"

"Because," he says, staring me straight in the eye, "You deserve a chance at happiness, too."

Words fail me, for once. I know that, as soon as he leaves, a gaping hole will tear itself in my heart, and probably never repair itself. But in that moment, all I can feel is gratefulness that he would even think of me, that he would care.

"Thank you," I say, joining him on the couch.

"You're welcome," he answers quietly.

We sit in silence for a while, because as far as I can tell, sitting in silence with him is better than talking to anyone else. Plus, I'm waiting for the moment when he leaves and my tiny heaven is crushed.

"I have to go," he says suddenly, unsurprisingly. I want to walk him to the door, but I can't make my legs move. He sees my pain and lays a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. Then he starts to leave.

"Wait," I call out, hating myself for being so weak. I stand and kiss him one last time, trying to memorize his every feature. It's less passionate than before, less frantic and more chaste.

He breaks from me, much too soon. "Bye," he mutters, and lets himself out.

Even though he shuts it quietly, the door slams and echoes through the now silent apartment. I tear myself away from the door and wander to the kitchen.

The offending 24-pack is still in my refrigerator, and my hearts breaks just a bit at the sight of it. I briefly consider drinking one…

I grab the pack and throw it into the trash bag, already starting to forget.

_But I'm just drunk enough to let go of my pain_

_To hell with my pride, let it fall like rain from my eyes_

_Tonight I wanna cry_

**A/N: Love it? Hate it? …review, please?**


End file.
